TABLE OF CONTENTS RKYV # 29 {October 2009} RKYV ONLINE LOGO - David Marshall { current } - Roy G. James { original } - r. j. paré { original online adaptation }

Virtual Cover # 29 - art by Roger A. Wilbanks - layouts by David Marshall & r. j. paré Editorial Column - “At The Outset:” A Few Thoughts From the Editor - by r. j. paré Featured Artist Review - Roger A. Wilbanks – by r. j. paré Health - “Tom’s Therapeutic Tidings” - by Tom Rossini Writer’s Column - “Creation in our World” - by Larissa Gula

Poetry - by Larissa Gula, R. J. Pare’, Steph, Stephen Campbell, Anna Gehmacher

Interior Art - pieces by Sam van der Wouden, Roger Formidable, Takis Stavrou, Stan Nelson, Bob Labute, Mike Grattan, De Tourist, r. j. pare, Roger A. Wilbanks Short Fiction – “Silent” - by Patrick J. Nestor Jr. Pop Culture – “Comic Book Review” -by Brad Bellmore “Raised on Saturday Morning Cartoons” - by Pauline Harren Paré

Tim Roth – by Mike Grattan

At the outset

A few thoughts from

the editor By r. j. pare

“All our times have come

Here but now they’re gone

Seasons don’t fear The Reaper…”

Blue Oyster Cult

For those of you who follow this ‘Zine you just might have noticed something downright peculiar last month. In fact, considering all the messages I have received I am certain there is a fair bit of consternation that our favourite Art-Lit free-zine missed its first deadline. I feel it appropriate at this time to set the record straight. You see it all started with a 40 oz bottle of Tequila, an 8-Ball and a hooker. Well, that’s one of the crazy theories anyway. Some folks have wondered if I’d just up and abandoned the ole’ information super-highway. Others, while communicating with my wife, volunteered to ‘chip in’ to cover any necessary ransom fees in case Bolivian guerrillas were holding me in an attempt to raise capital for the next revolution. The truth is far more mundane than all that. Life got complicated. My wife lost her job which led to no small amount of turmoil inside Casa Paré. And then the real whammy hit – I got the big – bad H1N1 FLU bug. For a few weeks, there were days I could barely get out of bed. This sick germ would leave me sapped of energy and just wanting to crawl somewhere, close my eyes and wonder which gods I had defied and how best could I plead for mercy. The good news is I am back in the swing of things and hope everyone enjoys this issue – compiled from October submissions and celebrating Hallowe’en throughout with a variety of pictures from RKYV folks, clearly having a costumed blast!

Regular columnists Tom Rossini, Larissa Gula, Brad Bellmore & Pauline Paré are here again to share their thoughts, opinions, incite & wit. RKYV ONLINE is fortunate to have their continued support and it is a privilege to share their columns with all of you. I am also pleased to present a creepy, fun, & new short story from contributor Patrick J. Nestor Jr. entitled “Silent.” Hopefully you get as much of a kick out of it as I did. Our featured artist of the month is Roger A. Wilbanks, check out his addictive Web Comic “The Portland Express” – ya just might get hooked!

http://theportlandexpress.smackjeeves.com This issue we are once again fortunate to be able to share a variety of art & poetry from our contributors – if you particularly enjoy a certain piece don’t hesitate to let them know! It is my intent to get production back on schedule… so the next issue of RKYV should be released in about one week [since most of the submissions have still been sent in, despite my regrettable lateness]. RKYV # 30 will predominantly focus on November submissions… but if you have something you’d really like to include in that ish please let me know and send it in ASAP. After that we should be back on schedule for the Christmas Special – to be released in the 1st week of January, 2010. Whew… Enough of my blabbering, on to the good stuff!

Untitled – by De Tourist

r. j. paré for Hallowe’en – Charlton Heston can bite me, villains are always cooler than heroes - LOL

Health

Tom’s Therapeutic Tidings By Tom Rossini

The Shortage of Men in the Nursing Profession

This past weekend, I was fortunate no… lucky to attend the 34th Annual Conference in Cincinnati, Oh. for The American Assembly for Men In Nursing (AAMN). The basis of the conference focuses on “Men…making a Difference in Nursing” with the mission to meet, discuss, and influence factors which affect men as nurses and promote men’s health while at the same time building a network and further expand a supportive network. Nursing has long been considered a profession that’s for women and not men. Even the founder of nursing Florence Nightingale believed that nursing was not a profession for men at all as they lacked compassion, empathy and nurturing that only a woman could bring. But over the years men have become more and more acceptable in the field of nursing. Today Male nurses comprise of approximately 37% of the nurses in the Navy Nurse Corps with 48% of them in junior ranks. While in the USA the number of male nurses in the public sector is < 6%. Is it because American society views male nurses as being gay or as failures since men are supposed to be physicians? Or maybe its due to the fact of gender bias in text books where nurses are referred to as “she” and that the media promotes the image of a nurse as female?

For example… let’s look at how the media portrays male nurses on TV… how many can you think of that are portrayed as straight? How about Gay? Take the NBC Show Mercy – 2 MD – male; 5 nurses 3 female and 2 male and one of the males is portrayed as gay. Now let’s look at Nurse Jackie – where Mohammed “MO MO” de la Cruz is another gay nurse and not to mention that “Mo Mo” in Spanish is equal to that of homo in English. And finally when you think of nurse what do you think of a man or a woman in sex outfit ready to “take care of you.”

Untitled – by Mike Grattan

So… as you read this today remember that men can be nurses and that it is not just a profession for women. Being a nurse means that your not only a caregiver but you are also a clergy, dietician, social worker, physical/occupational therapist, as well as a trusted friend to those in need. So the next time you hear the word nurse it could be me.

Untitled – by Bob Labute

< Tom’s wife dressed as a Smiling Witch…

& Tom as Bearded Jesus > – Now that’s Scary!!!

Featured artist Review

Roger a. wilbanks By r. j. paré & Pauline Paré

Bio: Born in Dallas, TX, Roger graduated from Sunset High School in 1989 where he worked on the school newspaper as staff artist and sports reporter. After receiving his Associates degree from Mountain View College, he attended the University of North Texas. He left the world of higher education, choosing to further his education in the real world. When not at his drawing table, he is usually out watching some of the awesome local music in Dallas. He has done artwork for a few of the bands, mainly as a way of helping show his support. He plays hockey as a goalie on a men’s league. He’s done this for almost 20 years. It is this active nature that keeps his mind fresh. He has been writing and drawing comics since as long as he can remember. His first published piece as a comic artist was a story in Satyr Magazine #9 this year titled “Just a Cup of Coffee” written by Erik W Hendrix.

He started a webcomic called The Portland Express earlier this year that in his own admission began as a lark, just to kill time, but has maintained a good sized following. http://theportlandexpress.smackjeeves.com While he is still waiting for the big break, he enjoys the freedom he has as an indie comic maker to write whatever he wants whenever he wants. It is this ability to run down the path of any tangents that pop into his head that is mainly responsible for the moderate success he enjoys.

r. j. paré: Have you always known that you wanted to be or, rather, were an artist? Roger Wilbanks: Yes. I learned early on that I saw the world in shapes and lines. I didn’t realize what that meant till a teacher caught sight of my doodling and popped me into art class. Since then it has been locked into my mind that this is what I was meant to do.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks Title: The Portland Express – Chapter 6, Page One Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie Size: 664 x 1000 px Date Created: 7/09 Pauline Paré: The previous chapter ended with our hero “Nails” grabbing the reluctant damsel in distress, “Daisy” & leaping from “Kane’s” pirate ship “The Portland Express”. They begin this chapter adrift at sea clutching a life preserver. r.j.p: A pretty cool “Title Page” for this chapter. The scene is set quite effectively & the comic’s title is placed with a bit of “tongue in cheek” cleverness using the [that the comic is named after] ship’s life preserver. The mix of inking styles & techniques in the piece [some heavy blacks; fine lines & cross hatching are all evident] really helps convey the dire nature of the circumstances the characters find themselves in. r.j.p: Did you study or major in art while in school? RW: Eventually. I grew up in the inner city. Art was something that garnered one very limited respect. Once I realized that was my calling though, I never backed down from it. If you see an edge to my writing or my art, that’s where it comes from. I spent a lot of time in self justification. I went Art School but found that I was not down at the same level as the other students and needed something that actually challenged me. That was a very disappointing time. I expected to learn, but instead taught. r.j.p: Who was your primary source of encouragement, as a child, in pursuing art? RW: My family was as encouraging as most families are. My aunt was my biggest push, since it was her that eventually hung my art on her walls next to her Picassos and Japanese woodcuts. Once I saw the juxtaposition of their work and mine, I realized “Yeah. This is something I could do.” That and my Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox (circa 1977)

r.j.p: What is your favorite media to work with? RW: Gun to my head… it’s ink and Bristol. I decided early on not to limit myself though. I like watercolor, sculpture and oil. Not a fan of collage. I have dabbled in most of the mediums out there yet I still find the majority of my work looking like comic art. I once drew a skull on the hood of a friend’s truck using the dirt and my finger. (He refused to wash it afterwards.) I drew a picture of a girl in a bar with a toothpick and Tabasco sauce and did a similar portrait with a book of struck matches, so I don’t recognize limits in what I can use. If it makes a mark, I’ll use it.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks Title: The Nightmare – [a short story] Page Ten Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie Size: 664 x 1000 px Date Created: 6/08 r.j.p: For starters I would like to bring your attention Roger’s ability to effectively convey emotion in his line work. The therapist’s transition from bored irritation to a surprise fear is pitch-perfect. The scene is a fun play on the “bad guy seeks a shrink” plot we’ve seen played out to comedic effect in films like “Analyze This” and dramatic effect in television’s “The Sopranos”. Roger ups the ante here by giving this dynamic a twist in the tradition of Rod Sterling or the old EC Comics. What therapy can help you when your dead victims come calling? r.j.p: Do you use any special tools and techniques to create your art?

RW: My most important tool is not a tool in the physical sense. It’s my mind. I have an ability to visualize what I am drawing before I draw it. I have read numerous artists’ interviews where they have described the fact that they don’t draw so much as trace the images from their mind. I find myself in the same boat in that I see what I want in a clear picture (more or less) before I ever take pen to paper.

r.j.p: What inspires you to create art? RW: Real life. As a kid, I remember thinking that comic art was the hardest to do because “Those guys have to be able to draw EVERYTHING well. People, buildings, cars, planes, etc.” I was about 6. I watch everything around me and pull my inspiration from what I see: A mother with child at the store, a homeless man, a bird in flight and a wrecked car. All these images stand out in my mind as relevant when I see them in their natural state. r.j.p: How would you categorize your artistic style? RW: Till recently I would have told you I don’t have one and to a certain degree I maintain that. The way I draw has been called Minimal-Photorealistic, mainly because I use photos as reference. I try to whittle every panel down to it’s core and only draw the parts that are relevant. The reader’s time is precious to me, and I want to instill a feeling from my art quickly. The best way to do that is to winnow away anything unnecessary. Like Hemmingway, but with a pencil. r.j.p: Would you say that there is a "message" or "unifying theme" in your work? RW: Not really. My work was described as a Slice of Life. The everyday made important. My favorite stories involve the quiet moments of reflection and conversation. I like a knock down brawl also, but there is more power in a solitary figure standing alone than there can ever be in a muscle-bound spandex battle royal.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks Title: Barnabus Moss and the Agents of Ba'al Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie Size: 664 x 1000 px Date Created: 8/09 RW: This is from a comic I did as part of my own contest on my FB free comic page that allowed fans to pick the story they would like to see as a weekly serial.

r.j.p: Which famous artists / creators or styles have influenced you? Why? RW: Foremost, Will Eisner. He showed me that this art form is serious as well as relevant. Thought goes into every page from layout to lettering. Neal Adams, Burne Hogarth, Alex Raymond, Frank Miller, John Byrne, John Romita (Jr & Sr) Walt Simonson, Frank Mazzuchelli…the list is really long. I like art from artists that take their work seriously. I learn something from every artist I am exposed to, even the bad ones, ESPECIALLY the bad ones. My main goal is to draw the world as it is, just more dynamic. r.j.p: Would you rather have an engaged & loyal but, ultimately, small Indie readership or work on the latest Spidey, Wolverine or X - book? [the old Art vs Commerce question] RW: This one is easy. Neither. My ideal goal would be to do what I like, when I like and still be able to maintain a living at it. I don’t like staying on the same subject for too long. I get bored easilly that way. As a writer, I have far too many ideas in my head to anchor myself to one idea. I would liken my ideal career to that of Stephen King. I would like to be known for the variety of quality work I produce. If I can find that opportunity behind a major property or my own indy property, either will make me happy.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks Title: The Bad Seeds Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie Size: 664 x 1000 px Date Created: 8/09 RW: This page is also from a comic I did as part of my own contest on my FB free comic page that allowed fans to pick the story they would like to see as a weekly serial. This one resurrects 20's era gangsters and drops them in Europe pre WII as war instigators. r.j.p: With advancements in computer graphic tablet technology, some artists are now creating their work directly in the digital medium and releasing it in purely digital formats... are the days of paper & pulp doomed to the realm of fading memories? RW: Nah. As long as they continue to make spiral notebooks and pencils, people will use them to draw comics. Whether these wind up being transferred onto a digital format or are just used as springboards for fully digital work is immaterial. It’s easier to draw on paper than on a computer.

r.j.p: What do you think of the term "starving artist"? RW: It applies. I had the misguided notion in my youth that once I decided to do this for a living the gates would open for me like St Peter’s and I would be welcomed inside the kingdom with loads of money and free beer. That’s not the case. You have to work for everything you get in this business… and sometimes, more often than not, you work your whole life for recognition that will never come. You can spend decades of your life writing or drawing stories no one reads. But I don’t do this for the riches or fame. I do it because I am compelled to. I know no other way. I find myself drawing everywhere I go, and the ideas refuse to leave me alone. I’m not making any money off of this, but that doesn’t matter. If that comes it will only make all the heartache sting less. I draw my biggest comfort from a fan reading my latest story and saying “I liked this!” Financial gain can’t compete with that feeling. It can only allow me to buy a better brand of beer. r.j.p: Do you feel more a sense of community with other artists or a sense of competition? RW: Community. I have a unique understanding of people, coming from the diverse life I have led. I have seen how the idea of a rival can inspire you, but I have also seen how the futility of petty jealousy can be a rotting albatross on your neck. I believe we are all in this together, and that the success of one reflects on everyone. I love talking shop with complete strangers. r.j.p: How do you market yourself? RW: I really don’t do a good job at this part. I focus on the writing and drawing. I use Facebook and Deviant Art mainly, but more in a “Here it is…” fashion. I don’t seek fans so much as I simply welcome them. That makes it kind of hard to generate a huge following. I have over 500 fans on my Facebook Free Comics page. I only invited about half of those. The other half have found me and told their friends. r.j.p: Do you find it difficult to stay motivated / inspired? RW: Not at all. As I said, I am compelled to do this. I know no other way. Cooks see ingredient combinations in their sleep, I am told. Architects see buildings. I see comics. I have a regular recurring dream where I am at a comic book shop reading comic books that I have never seen before. A lot of my stories have come from this Comic Shop in my Mind. r.j.p: While traditional publishing and distribution has become a difficult goal to achieve for the modern Indie comic creator, what do you think of the impact that social networks and POD services have had as an alternate means of connecting you, your work and your audience? RW: I would have no readers were it not for Facebook and MySpace. These social networking sites have opened up a broad range of people to my art. As far as POD services, I haven’t used them. I am skeptical of them. I think they create unrealistic price structures for comics by artificially inflating the costs. My thinking is that comics cost too much these days. The trade off from a 99c b/w comic with a great story to a $5 full color, digitally enhanced die-cut cover monstrosity is unfathomable. As businessmen, we comic people have priced ourselves out of the business.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks Title: Beds Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie Size: 664 x 1000 px Date Created: 8/08

RW: This page is from a comic I have called Beds. The world ends in the first issue and is reborn in the second. I did THIS page last and the others in the book about 2 years earlier.

r.j.p: Roger demonstrates a ‘director’s eye’ in his storyboarding. This fantastic page – ALONE – makes me want to find the rest of this story and read it through. r.j.p: What other interests do you have, besides art? RW: I am an avid hockey player. I have played since 1992. As a goalie, I see the world from an interesting POV. It’s something that is almost unexplainable, but it’s like watching a quilt knit itself and then you tying the final knots. I am also a big supporter of local music in Dallas. Usually when not tied to my drawing table, I can be found at a local dive bar or honky-tonk enjoying loud local music with my friends. r.j.p: What advice would you have for a young artist starting out today? RW: Draw every day, even when you don’t want to. Frank Herbert wrote in DUNE something to the effect of “Moods are for lovemaking or cattle.” If you are an artist, you draw. You owe it to yourself to improve. If you are still drawing the same thing today with the same skill as you did 10 years ago, you have failed yourself. Read voraciously. Go to the museum till you can draw everything there from memory. Carry a spiral sketchbook and just go downtown at lunchtime. The time you lost when you put down your pencil can never be replaced.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks Title: Just a Cup of Coffee Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie Size: 664 x 1000 px Date Created: 8/08 RW: Just a Cup of Coffee is from a story written by Erik W Hendrix (whose comic Faction won the Small Press Idol contest this summer) that appeared in Satyr #9 in June of 09. It's the first part in a series we call Capetown Chronicles. r.j.p: Remove the narration and this page STILL conveys the story effectively ‘drawing’ the audience in with a pacing that makes the character both relatable and appealing. The use of monochrome grey colour shading is quite effective with Roger’s line work.

r.j.p: Do you have any big plans, shows or Cons coming up? RW: I don’t really plan that far ahead. I have a story (Just a Cup of Coffee) written by Erik Hendrix, that appeared in an anthology “Saytr - #9” this summer with another one (Undead on Arrival) also written by Erik coming out this fall in “Mysterious Visions – After Hours #5” I have a webcomic with a fairly decent following and am planning on doing a Zuda comic this fall as well. But aside from that, I am relying too much on my own inertia these days.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks Title: The Portland Express – Chapter 16, Page One Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie Size: 664 x 1000 px Date Created: 9/09 PP: Nails & Kane travel to Mexico in search of treasure. Kane’s Grandfather is the voice of the narrative reciting a Chinese parable of a ‘fighting cock’ as means of taking Nails measure. The posters in the background foreshadow the upcoming events in this Chapter. r.j.p: I chose this striking page to use as the art for this month’s cover. The use of heavy black shading in the inks enhances this [dare I say it] iconic pose. Nails is portrayed as tough yet, slick and composed; perceptive and dangerous. In the tradition of James Bond this is a man that women want and men want to be.

r.j.p: How would you like your art, and by extension yourself, to be remembered? RW: Relevant. I want some guy 100 years from now pulling MY compilation from the crystal cube and showing it to some kid who has shown some talent with art and saying “That is how you should do it, Klexthar. THIS guy knew the secret.”

Vampire – by Roger Formidable

Writer`s column

Creation in our world By Larissa Gula

Column 12 – Inspirational Halloween Here’s to keep my miraculous appearance a second time running short and fairly sweet. Hm, sweet? Like, treat sweet? Trick ‘r Treat? By the time you all read this, I’m sure it will be long past Halloween. (Sorry, Randy, but it’s true.) Still, I think my leading topic can be appreciated year round, especially when the sun goes down and the chill in the houses begins to increase. Ghosts. I’m willing to bet every reader has a single defining thing they gravitate towards when they hear that word. Some people probably think of the sheet-like ghost that’s a white see through mass. Others might think of a person, a relative or historic figure known to haunt a location nearby. Still others may go the extra length to think of malicious forces we cannot explain. Untitled – by De Tourist

The thing is, we don’t know that much about ghosts. In fact, at least in the U.S., the majority cannot agree on whether they exist or not. (I know spiritually differs between cultures. Stay with me.) But ghosts are pretty darn popular, at least in the U.S. I even went and wrote a story about ghost walks in Pittsburgh for the Pitt News. The newspaper wanted their share of ghosts, too.

Two things made my personal experience all the more worthy. One, our stories are often rooted in historical fact. Two, the man telling the ghost stories was a marvelous professional freelance story teller. Raconteur, was he? Oh yes, he was. He knew how to tell, what to include, what was entertaining, and in the end, how to build the story and keep it flowing right up until the end without letting the audience escape the hook and net he’d made just for them. See the point yet? Whether these stories were true or not, whether the listeners believed or not: story telling itself is an act of creation. Another person would certainly have shared the tales in a different style and made them a bit different with their own style. It’s the nature of tales to be adopted and changed. Fairy tales are all said to originate from three basic stories that were elaborated on and changed for the cultures and times they existed in. I don’t even want to try to count how many exist now.

Forgotten Dreams – by Sam van der Wouden

Not only that, but creation serves not only a personal desire, but a public desire. I could tell my tour guide wanted to share his stories, and I could tell the audience wanted to be there – or at least managed to enjoy themselves if they were dragged along. It happens. It’s important to remember when working on artwork, you truly can’t please everyone, but on the other hand: maybe it’s not always the best idea to always create what you specifically want. There has to be at least a sliver of public desire for the artwork to be shared artwork. If you are happy keeping it to yourself as a hobby, by all means: go for it. But if you want to go public at some point, you can try to tone down your own artwork for the public, at least for a time. Maybe you can release a special edition later once you have fans?

This topic of ghosts may be as debated as the idea of being yourself versus selling to the public, and I am sure we all will take on other topics of questionable nature (what is more fun for an artist?) but I think peaceful debate is half the fun. In the end, the best artist makes the art as believable as my ghost tour guide did – at least for a time. But preferably, permanently. (Which was the case with the walk. Congrats, good sir.) To read the article I wrote for the Pitt News, go to http://trolleygirl13.blogspot.com/2009/10/pittsburgh-ghost-walks.html Best and Happy Halloween, -Larissa

Untitled – by De Tourist

< Chantel Paré for Hallowe’en 2009 < Our Li’l Princess

Genevieve Paré for Hallowe’en 2009 > The mythological horror “Medusa” !! >

Short Fiction

S I L E N T By Patrick J. Nestor, Jr.

As he came onto the platform, glad to be out of the rain, he saw the blonde. Even though Stephen knew her name (it was Kathy) he still thought of her as the blonde. He had first noticed her almost three months ago… just another commuter braving the daily trek into Manhattan. After hidden glances at each other for a few weeks, she had finally approached and extended her hand one day. It had been raining that day too. “Kathy.” she had stated simply. “Steve.” he had replied. “How are you?”

What is real – by Takis Stavrou

“Wet.” she had smiled. “This rain never seems to stop. Anyway, I figured since we’ve been noticing each other so many times and pretended not to, we might as well know the names of the person we were pretending not to notice.” They had chatted a little and discovered they worked close to each other and even frequented many of the same luncheon spots. Then the train came and they took seats together and talked a little more. They had a number of things in common it seemed. Both were married, both had one child, both cared for sick, elderly parents. For Steve it was his mother, for Kathy it was her father. Steven felt a small, thin charge while talking to her. He suspected she felt one too. They parted ways that morning at Penn Station, and agreed to try and have lunch sometime.

The next day, however, they had gone right back to their normal routine, only this time they would nod or raise a hand in acknowledgement to the other. Since then they had exchanged a few pleasantries, but both seemed to think that any further contact would be dangerous. Back in the present, Stephen stood with the tip of his shoes on the thick yellow line. The platform had a roof and he was able to close his umbrella. It was still quite dark outside and the clouds and rain made it seem almost as if it was night. He took a deep breath and felt a small pain as he exhaled as if his ribs were sore. His head felt hazy and full of cobwebs. He just couldn’t seem to focus this morning. He felt… weird. Exactly why, he did not know. It was like he had forgotten something important. He hadn’t been sleeping well. The way his mother had been feeling, it just wasn’t possible. A sound snapped him out of his musing. The train was arriving and as it came to a stop he snuck another look the blonde’s way. She glanced up as she was about to enter the train and nodded to him, a crooked smile on her face. He returned the nod and they entered their separate cars. The train car he entered was full to capacity and Stephen didn’t feel like standing the 40 minute trek to Penn Station. He looked around for a second and then felt his cell phone vibrate. He fumbled it out of his trench coat pocket and looked. It was his wife, Mary. He was about to answer it but suddenly felt like it would be something he wasn’t in the mood to deal with. He hit the silent button and placed it back in his coat pocket. He then started walking toward the next car. As he opened the door between the cars, he came face to face with the blonde. “Oh!” she gasped, startled. “Whoa. Hi Kathy.” Stephen said, stopping short of walking into her. “Hello Stephen.” she replied. “Looking for a seat?” “Yeah, you?” he answered. “No, I… well…” she began. He mouth hung open for a second, and then shut suddenly. Over her shoulder Stephen could see an empty seat next to an old woman. “Hey there’s one there, why don’t you take it?” he said. Kathy seemed to hesitate, looked down and then back up into his eyes. “No, you take it.” she said. “I want to move up to the front.” “You sure?” he asked. They both stumbled as the train jerked while pulling out of the station. Kathy grabbed his shoulder and steadied herself. “Yes, I’m sure.” she replied. She began to move past him and then hesitated again. “Stephen?” she started. “Have you ever had…” again, as before, she stopped and closed he mouth.

“Have I ever what?” he asked. She looked troubled and he was very curious of what she was about to ask. “Nevermind.” she replied. “You’d better grab that seat before someone else does.” Before he could say anything more, she slipped past him and moved into the car he had just left. He could go after her, but thought that to be a bit presumptuous on his part. They didn’t really know each other. He felt the phone buzz again but let it go to voice mail. He was holding on to make sure he didn’t stumble as the train moved. Stephen moved to the one empty seat, it was pretty amazing no one had snapped it up, and sat down. He sighed and closed his eyes for a second. Again, the feeling that he had forgotten something washed over him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t begin to guess what it was. He opened his eyes. The lights in the car flickered as the train moved along. Added in with the dark and rain outside, the train car seemed almost spooky. He could see the train conductor moving towards them and the flickering light gave a slightly jerky look to her movements. He didn’t like the way it looked and he closed his eyes again. “God it looks almost like that scene from The Ring.” he muttered under his breath to himself. “Excuse me?” a voice to his left spoke. “What did you say?” Stephen opened his eyes and looked up, startled. It was the woman he was sitting next to. She was staring at him intently. She looked to be in her late fifties/early sixties. A lump stuck in Stephen’s throat for a moment. For a second there, he almost thought she was his mother. Of course that would have been impossible. His mother was too sick to be on a train. “Oh… nothing.” Stephen started to stammer, embarrassed. “Just talking out loud to myself.” “Talking to ghosts.” she replied. “W… what?” he stuttered. The woman laughed softly and took off her glasses. “That’s what my Grand-ma-ma used to call it.” she explained. “You know, when you talk out loud to yourself. She called it talking to ghosts.” “Oh… I see…” Stephen answered, with a little chuckle. “For a second I thought… well… I don’t know what I thought.” He heard the uneasiness in his own voice and didn’t quite understand it.

She laughed again and put her glasses back on. “Now that,” she said with a sly grin, “Grand-ma-ma would have just called scatter-brained.” Despite himself, Stephen returned her grin. Just then, the lights went completely out. Even though it was a common occurrence on the train, he gasped. “Nothing to worry about.” The Conductor casually remarked, a few seats away. “They’ll be back on momentarily.” Stephen shook his head, feeling embarrassed. He was on total edge and he wasn’t sure why he was so ready to jump at shadows so easily. He felt the cell phone vibrating in his coat pocket again. He pulled it out. Mary again. Whatever it was, it could wait until he got to the office. The reception on the train was always lousy anyway. Right in the head – by Takis Stavrou

True to the conductor’s word, the lights came back on a moment later. Stephen closed his eyes again and settled back as the conductor glanced down at his monthly ticket on a lanyard around his neck and took the woman’s, punching it in a smooth, quick motion, “See?” she said smiling. “Normal occurrence. Unless we’re going through a tunnel or normally you can still pretty much see in daytime and people don’t even notice when it happens. Even as dark as it is out right now there is still some light coming through the windows.” Stephen nodded and tried to see if he could catch a little sleep. He felt tired. Had he been up late last night? Suddenly he couldn’t recall. What was it he had done last night? The silence in the train car was deafening. The train was normally quiet, especially in the early morning, but this was almost like a tomb it was so silent. Stephen opened his eyes at that thought. Again, he wondered what the hell was wrong with him. His pulse suddenly jumped… so quickly that he actually felt it thumping. Something was bothering him and he just couldn’t figure out what it was.

His phone vibrated again and he, almost angrily jabbed at it. Dammit, couldn’t she wait? What was so important she couldn’t wait until he got to the office? Was she calling just to complain again about his mother? She was sick. There was nothing they could do. Stephen knew it was a burden. He knew. But what could they do? His finger hit the ‘ignore’ button and he shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable. The train moved into a tunnel and that’s when the lights went out again. Unlike before, due to being in the tunnel, the train was plunged into total darkness. “Now *that’s* like a tomb.” he stage whispered to himself, talking to ghosts like the woman next to him had said. He waited for her to comment, but none came. He leaned back into his seat. A few seconds later the train came out of the tunnel. The lights came back on also. Stephen was alone. Literally… alone. He blinked and looked around. No one was there. The woman next to him… gone. The conductor who still should have been in sight… gone. The seats in front of him and behind him… empty. “What the fuck?” Stephen spat. He jumped up and almost hit his head on the metal storage shelf above him. He stepped out into the aisle and turned in a full circle, but there was nothing. No one. “I… I… I must have fallen asleep.” he said out loud to no one. Suddenly he relaxed a little. He had tried so hard to fall asleep… he had felt so tired and out of sorts that he must have fallen asleep and slept right through to the station. Stephen looked his watch to see how late he was for work and his blood ran cold. His watch read 6:46 am. Either he had managed to stay asleep for twenty-four hours straight or it was less than twelve minutes from when the train had left his station. Seeing that the arrival time into Penn was at 7:26 AM the idea that he had slept through the docking in Manhattan was dashed. Could the train have been evacuated and somehow they had passed him up while he was sleeping? It was highly doubtful, but not impossible… but could they really have gotten the train empty in a scant matter of minutes? After looking at his watch he didn’t think he had fallen asleep at all, but let’s say there was a few minutes difference… still it would have meant all those people getting off in like… four minutes. Tops. He didn’t think it was possible, but what else could it be? The train was still moving, so some one had to be operating it. That person would have some answers. Stephen grabbed his bag and looked forward. Since he was towards the rear of the train he would have to work his way up towards the front.

He started walking slowly, since the train rocked side-to-side roughly. All he needed was to fall and break something, but as he encountered empty car after empty car, he moved faster and faster until he was almost running. His anxiety rose with each passing second. He wasn’t sure how many cars he had gone through when he heard the voices. He froze for a moment, startled by the low, but sudden sound. He looked forward to the car ahead. The lights inside flickered on and off in an almost rhythmic pattern. More people though. Voice meant more people. Thank God. Stephen ran to the separating door and pulled it open, then pushed forward the door to the next car. Even as he entered however, he knew something was wrong. There were nine people sitting in the center, in a section of seats all facing each other. They sat rigidly, their backs straight, eyes faced staring front. They did not acknowledge Stephen or each other. They stared forward, seeming to face each other without seeing and chanted… a terrible, hollow sounding, chant. “The ground turned gray.” they all said in perfect unison. “The ocean turned red. The air turned to dust. The sky turned black.” “H… hello?” Stephen tried to interrupt. “What’s happening here?” None of them took notice of him. They all just continued their chant. “The cities turned to ruin.” they droned on. “The wind turned stale. The plants turned brown. The grass turned white.” Stephen’s heart rate, already racing, began to pound so hard he was almost having chest pains. He stumbled backwards and almost fell. “What the fuck is wrong with you people?!?” he screamed at them. “Stop it!” “The heart turned cold.” they went on, as is Stephen was not there. “The bones turned to stone. The skin turned green.” Stephen leapt forward and seized one of them, a man who seemed to be about the same age, and shook him violently. “Stop it!” Stephen screamed in his face. “Stop it, stop it. STOP IT!!!” The man, along with his companions, kept chanting. Stephen flung the man away from him and stumbled away. The train lurched and he fell on top of them. None of them reacted. They just kept chanting.

He leapt up and ran forward. As he reached the next door he looked forward and thought he saw something. He pulled and pushed his way through the two doors and burst into the next car. As he did he saw a figure leap through the next set of doors. He ran, full speed, forward and almost fell as the train lurched again. As he reached the doors he had to hold on to keep on his feet. He got through them into what seemed to be the front car. The lights in the car were almost all out. Just one light at the front was working and it was dim and flickering. Stephen could see the engineer’s compartment at the front. The door was closed and a thin red light came out under the crack of the door. Stephen looked around for the figure but saw none one. Who ever it was must have ducked into the engineer’s compartment. He moved carefully up to it and knocked softly on the door. “Hello?” he called out. “Can you help me? What is going on here?” No one answered. Stephen knocked again, harder this time. He then grabbed the handle and flung open the door. As it opened Stephen’s nostrils detected a sort of copper-like scent. Inside was a total nightmare. The little compartment’s walls were covered in blood. It was everywhere. The walls. The ceiling. The chair. The machinery. Even the light, which was the reason the light coming under the door was red. It looked like someone had exploded inside there. On the train controls was a severed hand that seemed to be keeping the level for the forward motion of the train going. On the window looking out to the tracks was a single, dripping word written in scarlet.

S I L E N T Stephen gagged and fell backwards. At the same moment the train screeched and came to a halt. He hit the floor hard, his elbow hitting the edge of one seat and the back of his head hitting another. It took him a second to realize they were fully stopped. Then the doors came open with a metallic hiss. As they did, a figure darted out from under the seats and rushed out the opening. This time Stephen could see. It was a little girl in a dark red dress. Stephen was too surprised to shout out to her. He leaned on the seat next to him and hoisted himself up and ran out of the train. The track platform was deserted. He looked around and saw no one, but he could hear clomping on the stairs leading up and away from the train. Not knowing what else to do, Stephen followed.

“Wait!’ he finally was able to yell. He ran up the steps, praying the station would be full of people. It wasn’t. In fact, when he reached the top of the stairs, Stephen should have been surrounded by people and kiosks selling newspapers, and brightly lit shop fronts selling every imaginable food. But there was nothing. The station looked like it had been closed for years. A cart lay on its side, its wheels twisted and broken. All of the shops had the security gates pulled down but all the metal was rusted and dusty.

A case that had held schedules was upside down, the schedules scattered all around. Ticket windows were bare or broken. Litter was everywhere and the smell of the air was stale. “Oh my God,” Stephen gasped. “No God.” a tiny voice came from behind him. Stephen whirled around in time to see the little girl run away. “Wait!” he yelled, “STOP!” The only answer he got was a strange sound that he could not tell was a giggle or a sobbing. He ran after the little girl. She was fast, but his legs were much longer and he caught up to her. “Wait! I’m not going to hurt you!” Stephen said as he caught her. The little girl screamed as his hand clamped around her arm. “You will!” she shrieked at him, her voice high and shrill. “You are a liar! You will!!”

The Horror – by Takis Stavrou

“No! Please stop it!” Stephen shouted back, holding her firmly as she tried to break away. “Calm down!” The girl stopped struggling and looked at him with terrified eyes. “Don’t.” she whispered. “It’s ok, I promise.” he replied gently. “I swear I’m not here to hurt you. Ok? She sniffed and nodded, but looked very doubtful. “What’s your name?” Stephen asked. “Rose.” she said, sounding as if she thought it was a stupid question. “Hi Rose. I’m Steve.” he replied. “Are you alone? Were you with someone?” “I’m all alone now.” she answered. “Did you get separated from your mommy?” he asked. The little girl looked grave. “She’s dead.” she told him. Stephen was afraid to ask if she meant she had been dead, but had been killed just before. “Who were you with on the train?” he asked her. “They’re all dead you know.” she said to him. “All of them. They are dead and we are damned.” Stephen was shocked. Where would she get such an idea? Of course, looking around them he supposed it really wasn’t hard to wonder why. If seemed as if they were in hell. “Why would you say that?” he whispered. “The lady told me.” she said. “What lady?” he asked, surprised. “The blonde lady on the train.” she replied, again sounding like it was something he should have known. Someone else had been on the train? “Where did she go?” he asked. “She ran away.” she said simply. Stephen looked around almost expecting to see a blonde woman standing there. No one was. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to think. A few second went by before he heard the scratching. It was low at first and he didn’t notice it. As it got louder and looked around. “Do you hear that?” he asked the little girl. She shook her head.

Stephen stood up and turned in a circle. The sound was coming from the direction they had run from, the direction of the tracks. He took a step in that direction. The sound was getting louder. It was a scratching sound of sorts. He took another step… then another. The shadows in the area seemed to part and he realize the sound was something dragging itself towards them. Stephen’s eyes bulged. The form was short and looked like it was wearing some sort of filthy nightgown. Whatever it was it looked like it had been dead for some time. He gasped and took a step backwards. That was when Rose giggled and ran past him. “What the… no!” Stephen shouted. He reached for her but she ducked under his hands easily and bolted away. Before he could run after her, Stephen heard a scream from the opposite direction. He didn’t know what to do. “Oh my God, oh my God,” Stephen gasped. “What do I do?” “Talking to ghosts?” the thing slithering towards him asked suddenly. Its voice was raspy and low, but strangely familiar. “Talking to ghosts?” Behind him the scream rang out again. Stephen looked in the direction Rose had run. She was gone. Hating himself, he turned and ran towards the screaming. “Talking to ghosts?” the thing cried out as he ran, its voice getting louder. “Talking to ghosts?” Stephen didn’t look back; he just fled in the direction of the screaming. He came to a split but could hear the screams coming from the left corridor. It was darker down that way. He could see, but the lights were dim, as if the power was low. He rushed down and ran full speed into a fenced in gate. “OOOOOOOF!!!” the air was knocked out of him as he bounced off and hit the ground. He got onto his knees and looked up. Beyond the gate he could just make out a figure. It was a woman. Her back was to him. She was looked at something hidden by the darkness. She was whimpering. “Hey.” Stephen called out to her. The woman screamed again as she turned around. He had scared her speaking up suddenly like that. Her face was bloodied and had scratches on it. Even as she turned Stephen recognized her.

“Kathy!” he exclaimed. She must have been the blonde that Rose had told him about. “It’s ok, it’s Stephen!” Kathy looked at him, no recognition in her eyes for a moment. She was shaking and her breathing was coming out in bunches, like she was hyperventilating. Her eyes looked wild and almost savage. “Kathy?” Stephen almost whispered to her. She seemed to snap out of it then. “Steve?” she gasped. “Oh My God, Steve, help me!” “What happened? Did you fall asleep on the train too?” he asked “No!” she exclaimed. “Everything changed! Everything…” She stopped and looked ahead again. She looked back towards Stephen. The wild look was in her eyes again. “He’s here. But he can’t be.” she whispered. “Who? What’s going on?” he asked. She didn’t answer. The look on her face was pure terror. She suddenly scurried towards him and grabbed onto the fencing. “I’M SORRY!” she screamed. “I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO!!! I’M SO SORRY!!!” Stephen recoiled at her outburst. Was she apologizing to him? He didn’t understand but his heart was racing. He reached out towards her. His fingers touched the tips of her knuckles as she clutched the fencing, seeming to hold on for dear life. “NO!! NONONONONONO!!!!!!” she continued to scream at the top of her lungs. “PLEASE HELP ME!!!! DADDY!!!! HELP ME!!!!! I’M SO SORRY!!!!!! DON’T PUNISH ME!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!” Before Stephen could say anything, she suddenly seemed to lift up, as if someone was pulling on her. Stephen looked up and her feet and bottom of her legs were covered by shadows. “Kathy!” he shouted. Kathy couldn’t answer him; she was staring at her feet… at whatever was pulling her. He could see her hands starting to slip from the fencing. He fumbled at her fingers… trying to see a way to grab onto her, but it was impossible. All he could do was look. She looked back at him… her eyes a mixture of fear and regret.

“We should have known.” she told him. With that her grasp broke and she shot away, pulled by the thing he couldn’t see. He didn’t know what was worse, the fact she didn’t scream, or when she started to seconds later. Stephen fell back onto his ass for stared for a second. He then hopped into a crouch and launched himself at the fencing. He bounced off again. “KATHY!!!” he shouted. The scream got lower, as if she was going further away. The volume decreased rapidly and after a few more moments was gone. Stephen stood, uncertain of his next move. Suddenly he realized something. He had his cell phone. He pulled it out and almost dropped it. He looked and saw he had a large number of missed calls. All were from Mary. He flipped open the phone and hit the call button. It dialed his house. It rang a number of times. Then someone picked up. “Mary!” he shouted into the phone. There was no answer on the other side, just a low hiss. Stephen remembered where he was. Underground, in the train station the signal was weak at best. He tried anyway. “Mary?!?” he shouted again. “Please! Can you hear me?” He started to run the way he had come. He had to get up to the street, get some reception. He kept the phone next to his head. Stephen ran down the corridor and came back to the split. This time her took the right tunnel and rushed towards a set of stairs he knew was there. He continued to shout into the phone. When he saw the stairwell and escalators he almost cried in relief. He bounded up them, two at a time, but at the top was another fenced in gate. . “NO!” he screamed. He slammed into the gate and was tossed back. He almost fell back down the stairs but managed to keep his balance. The phone popped from his grasp and in an acrobatic move he managed to catch it before it fell and shattered on the ground. He pressed against the gate, hoping his closeness to the outside was enough to get a clear signal. He couldn’t quite see outside but it was dark and he could feel a damp splatter of rain and wind on his face. He dialed his line again, but this time it was busy. He tried again and again and got nothing.

“DAMMIT!!!” he raged. How was that even possible? Didn’t they have call waiting? Suddenly he remembered his mother’s line. She had her own phone line in her room. He flipped through his contacts until he found the number but before he hit send he hesitated. He stared at the phone for a moment… as if afraid to dial the line. He suddenly felt like it was hopeless. His mother wouldn’t answer… *couldn’t* answer. Then he hit send. The phone seemed to sigh and then the phone rang. It rang seven times and then someone picked up. “Hello?” he hissed into the phone. “Hello? Ma?” No one answered him, but unlike before there was no hiss, just breathing. “Ma! Is that you? MA!” Stephen shouted into the phone. The breathing stayed on the line, but only now it seemed to be labored, as if the person on the line suddenly had trouble breathing. “Mom?” Stephen whispered. The breathing became more and more labored. The breaths became shorter and gasping. A low, horrible croak came from the receiver. Stephen dropped the phone and stepped back. Line is Dead [No Signal] – by r. j. paré

“Oh my God.” He whispered. He then lost his balance and fell backwards, down the stairs. He tried to stop his fall, but seemed to just make it worse. He heard how falling down stairs seemed to take forever, but for him it went quick. He hit the bottom with a thick thud. He couldn’t move. He knew he had to have broken something. The pain was everywhere. He tried to shift. His head was on the bottom step and when he moved it banged on the hard floor. He was facing his phone. It had fallen with him. He recoiled despite the pain. Stephen lay for a moment and shifted again. This time the feeling in his arms was less painful and he was able to lift up a little onto an elbow. He came face to face with the little girl, Rose.

“JESUS!” he screamed. Rose didn’t react to his scream. She reached out and picked up the phone. “Who were you talking to?” she asked. Stephen tried to sit up the whole way but the pain was too great. “Rose, I’m hurt.” he gasped. The girl looked at him. Her face was impossible to read. “When I was a little girl, I used to love the train.” she said. “W… when you were…” Stephen stammered. “What are you talking about? You are a little girl! Rose, please, I’m hurt and I need help.” “We didn’t have a car.” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “The train was fun and exciting.” Stephen stared at the ceiling and willed himself to sit up. As much as it hurt, he managed to get himself into a sitting position. Rose was staring at him. Her eyes seemed bloodshot. She must have been so scared that she was unhinged. She smiled at him wistfully. “Now the train only goes one way.” she told him. “One way.” Stephen didn’t like the way her voice sounded. It started to get a little deeper… husky like. “Rose. Are you ok?” he asked. The girl held up the phone. “You missed so many calls.” she said. Stephen tried to get up, but the pain was too intense. He feared both his legs were broken. “You didn’t want to answer your phone.” Rose said to him. “Why?” “I…I…” Stephen didn’t know what to say. “You didn’t want to face it.” she said. “But you have to. You have to face it. You all do.” Stephen has no idea what she was talking about. But he did. Somewhere in his heart he knew and he was suddenly afraid. Rose tilted her head and held the phone out. “Check your messages Stephen.” she told him.

Stephen didn’t want to touch her or the phone, but he saw his hand reach up and take it from her. He hit the button to retrieve his messages. At the bottom of the stairs he would likely not get a signal anyway. But he did. “Please enter your password.” The phone said. Stephen punched it in. “You have six new messages.” the phone told him. “First message.” “Stephen?” he could hear his wife’s voice. “Please call me. It’s an emergency.” Stephen deleted the message and the next one began. “Stephen?” it was Mary again. “Please call me! Honey it’s an emergency! Call me!” Stephen deleted the message and the next one began. “Stephen! Dammit! Pick up and call me!” his wife’s voice was a mixture of worried and agitated. “It’s serious! You have to call me!” He deleted that one and the next started. “Stephen!!!” his wife was shouting now. “My God! Call me!!!! It’s you’re…” Stephen threw the phone. It skittered away and clattered. Then it came to a rest and then he could still hear it. “… when I went in this morning. CALL ME!!!” the phone cried. Rose got up and went to it. She picked up the phone and brought it back. She pressed a button on it and held it towards him. “STEPHEN!!! OH MY GOD STEPHEN CALL!! YOUR MOTHER! WHEN I WENT IN TO WAKE HER SHE WAS DEAD! CALL ME!!!!! YOUR MOTHER STEPHEN, YOUR MOTHER IS DEAD!” his wife’s screams echoed in the empty train station. Rose hit another button and let the phone fall into his lap. She stared at Stephen. “I… I …” Stephen was weeping. “I…” “You knew.” Rose told him. “That’s why you ignored the calls.” “She was sick. So sick.” Stephen pleaded. “She was in so much pain.” “I know.” Rose told him. “Who are you?’ he asked. “You know.” she said. She bent down and took his hand. “You know.” “I’m sorry.” he said. “There was so much pain.”

“It doesn’t make it right.” Rose replied. He voice was deeper again and she stepped back into the shadows. Stephen stared at where she had slipped into the darkness. In his lap the phone suddenly rang. He picked it up and hit the receive button. “Come on Stephen.” the voice on the other end said. “We promised we’d get lunch one day.”

The voice sounded scratchy and husky. “K… Kathy?” Stephen asked. “The four of us.” she replied. “Time to go. Time to talk to ghosts.” Stephen then felt the hand grab his ankles and pull.

******************************* Mary sat with her face in her hands. The kids were in their rooms, all crying. She still couldn’t get Stephen on the phone. The EMTs were in her mother in law’s room. It was a formality though. She had been dead when Mary had gone in to wake her. Mary looked at the pillow next to her; the pillow that normally was never in her moth-in-law’s room. She didn’t want to think about why it was there. She looked away and at the phone again. She couldn’t get Stephen at all. She didn’t understand it. The phone rang suddenly. He caller ID said “STEVE CELL”

In the darkness, screaming – by r. j. paré

She picked it up. “Oh My God! Where have you…” she broke off. On the other side was only a dull hiss and some breathing. “Stephen?” she said. She heard what sounded like a giggle. Then the phone went silent.

- fin -

Line is Dead [No Signal]: Eternal – by r. j. paré

Zombie – by Roger Formidable

Poetry

Wondering By Frances Nichols Vargas

Calling on all angels Looking for the signs

To deliver me to the path Devine

Stepping over shattered glass Trying to get past The hard times

And find the sunshine Breathing in and Counting to ten Wondering when This Hell will end

Untitled – by De Tourist

Selected poems By Marie Lecrivain Bio: Marie Lecrivain is the editor of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, and a writer in residence at her apartment. Her work has been published in The Los Angeles, Review, The Houston Literary Review, Literary Bitch, and a few other journals. Her new collection of poetry Antebellum Messiah, (copyright 2009 Sybaritic Press), is available through Amazon.com.

The AThe AThe AThe Antidotentidotentidotentidote

the trouble starts when you hand me

potion in a martini glass oily and viscous

like the sluggish blood pumping through my veins

that picks up speed as you and I begin to exchange glances

and negotiate our thighs brushing one against the other

the heat between us climbing higher to add a carmine stain

to our cheeks and then you hand me

another glass of elixir that glitters with anticipatory sparks that alight on my brow where you brush away a lock of my unruly hair

as well as awaken my abeyant heart which has not see this kind of action

in damned near a decade or at least that is what it feels like

most nights when the cold space next to me in bed

fills with my weary tears and hopeless wishes for a life

that I have not been able to grasp and then you hand me

another glass of glowing vitae and we are dancing and swaying among

a throng of sweaty bodies and I close my eyes to savor your possessive grip around my waist

and the only thought that echoes through my head is :

god, I need to taste

those sweat beads

whorling down your neck and then you hand me another glass of poison

which swirls menacing and muddy but I do not pay attention

to its lack of luster until I tip back the glass

and its contents taste bitter on my tongue as do your ashy lips against mine which leave me dry and spiritless as a windy September afternoon and then my head is spinning

and the crush of inebriated bodies threaten to engulf me

and I then my heart stops as the glass drops from my hand

to the floor-

and then you cast me from your embrace

and I stand alone amidst a wreck of shards disconnected from a crowd

who dances on to the beat of their shared passion

and my blood cools at the sight of you

entwined with another who presses tightly against your groin

as I watch her tongue snake out and lap up those beads of sweat off your neck-

the antidote I should have taken

between the third and fourth imbibement

copyright 2007 marie lecrivain

Tropico – by Takis Stavrou

VerbotenVerbotenVerbotenVerboten

to chris parker The smells of coffee & deodorant tell me it’s morning, along with the vestiges of sleep & dreams evaporating from tight mouths & darting eyes. I wonder why their fear is so palpable? It's a beautiful autumn morning, & here comes the Sun (doo-doo -doo-dah), & I would think the reassurance of Light would smooth away the lines of worry I spy etched across a line of foreheads bent into a series of private worlds; newspapers, text messages, or dusty patterns on the floor, knowing the fear, disguised as etiquette, is too ingrained in all of us to break through that fourth wall,

to acknowledge the loneliness that is our birthright & our curse – the price of being trapped in a meat shell with nothing to look forward to but more decay... yet, this is where humor becomes my saving grace... misery loves company, & I smile at the poor skater boy collapsed on the subway floor, who coughs more oxygen into his lungs – those bellows, that, of course, are in the process of being cauterized by a pack of Marlboro Reds peeking out from his jean jacket pocket...& I laugh to myself - he is conquering his fear - though he doesn't know it yet.

copyright 2009 marie lecrivain

Untitled – by De Tourist

No 62No 62No 62No 62

pawns are the soul of chess – andre philidor Aleksandr strolls through Bittsa Park, laughing at the bespredel he’s caused. Tonight as the police retrieve the saturated remains of no. 62 from the neighborhood cesspool, Aleksandr envisions the chessboard; a cheap, black-and-ivory enameled affair won by his grandfather in a match aboard a leaky freighter back in the 30’s during the longest night of the year when all men on board measured their dreams against the crest of every Baltic wave. Aleksandr shivers at the image of his grandfather’s hands; cruel, capable, and wrapped with conscious precision around the chessboard that was bashed against Aleksandr’s head each time he lost a match, each time he didn’t bring the vodka home, and for being the famished, pitiful legacy of a man with few prospects… except, for the chessboard, which sits on a stand next to Aleksandr’s bed, each square numbered 1 through 62, each space traversed by an unwitting pawn in Aleksandr’s game; befriended and feted with cheap vodka and a toast to a dead dog. Each one brought down by the parabolic union of bottle to skull. As the police close in, Aleksandr divines the truth; he was only two moves away from check… and mate.

copyright 2007 m. lecrivain

Hell O Ween Reaper Goddess – by Stan Nelson

if you spoke, what would you say?

but, since you are not so inclined to be reveal your secrets, i am left

to listen to you via visual cues which are best encapsulated

in three words - sacred goth cow. yes, that is more like it. you look

like a brahma bull who got a hold of bauhaus's "in the flat field,"

and decided, after listening to peter croon at 6.66 decibels,

that it would be cool to be,

well - perpendicular - for a change...

however, the thirty-gauge brass ring hanging off the end of your gallic nose,

encrusted with a little too much snot and oxidation doesn't inspire the

ambiguous desire that peter does, though it weirdly compliments

your rhomboid shoulders bursting through the confines of that creepy

ill-fitting black suit that smells

like you appropriated it from your

grandfather's grave - circa 1957. with your pale, fish-like lips at odds

with your bored, black-rimmed eyes, i am left to conclude that you don't

care to adhere to the finer dictates

of vampyre fashion…

Devil 2 – by Stan Nelson

and just as i am

about to dismiss you as another metro bus 217 oddity, my own eyes

are drawn to your large, delicate

white hands... which, in point of fact,

are appropriately nosferatu-like with long, crescent-shaped nails

curved into themselves, holding an ipod mini in one, and a blank

cd in the other - i suppose you may be krishna in disguise. a lot

of gods take their vacations in los angeles... and, incognito,

as us mere mortals are taught, though, if this is true, i must say,

that yours is the most interesting. may i suggest a visit to melrose,

where you will find two things;

affordable goth wear, and a plethora

of goth gopis who will recognize your greatness, bath you in perfume

and blood wine, and adorn you with faded roses and sing your praises

in time to siouxie's melancholic hymns...

copyright 2009 marie lecrivain

To enjoy more of Marie’s writing:

Links www.poeticdiversity.org http://www.amazon.com/Antebellum-Messiah-Marie-Lecrivain/dp/1615399658/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1256742559&sr=1-1 http://www.amazon.com/Nihilistic-Foibles-Marie-Lecrivain/dp/0977867064/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1256742602&sr=1-3

Maman Brigitte, Rite O Saturn – by Marie Lecrivain

Pop culture

Comic book review: Doctor Voodoo By Brad Bellmore

Thumb Sideways

As a kid, Doctor Strange freaked me out. There was something cool about him and all that power, but the whole mystery of the arcane angle felt too creepy to get comfortable with the guy. This confession makes me concede that my experience with Doctor Voodoo may have been colored by those childhood experiences. Doctor Voodoo is a new series from Marvel Comics featuring Rick Remender as the writer and Jeff Palo as the artist. The basic idea here is that Doctor Voodoo, or Jericho Drumm when he isn’t being sorcerer supreme, has taken Doctor Strange’s position as chief wield of magical arts. This is his debut in the role and in the comic. He even begins with Stephen Strange as a mentor in the tale but it is apparent that he has outgrown him. Overall, the story here was interesting, but hard to follow. Last month I knocked Genecy for being a bit esoteric. This goes way beyond. Granted, when dealing in the realm of magic and all things spiritual, at some point you have to slip into esoteric. For some people this is grand. For me, not so much. This book felt too vague. I found myself trying to figure things out too much of the time. I suppose that if I had been a follower of Doctor Strange, this might be easier to follow. Then again, perhaps not. This book hits another of pet peeves in the comic industry: the highly successful alter-ego career. You’d think saving the world would take enough time and energy that running a large corporation or finding the cure for cancer would be difficult. I know, the whole world is make-believe; people don’t really fly or turn invisible. So, since we are stretching the bounds of reality, why not continue it for the secret identity life?

I suppose, but it really bugs me. At least this book addresses the issue with Doctor Strange reprimanding Jericho for trying to continue his medical practice while being Sorcerer Supreme. That doesn’t slow Jericho down one bit. Especially since he runs a clinic for the underprivileged. That said, he has a great line early on: “I am the Gunner of God!” Truly fresh. A wonderful break from cliché. The look of this book is precisely what you would expect from Marvel – whether that connotes good or bad to you. Personally, I think the look fits the tale being told. Since so much is over the top, the excessive dynamic poses help carry that along. There is a nice dark and creepy feel in all the panels that add to the mystery of the supernatural. I love the way they handle Daniel, Jericho’s deceased brother that tags along as a ghost. I also like the look of Doctor Voodoo himself. As true a badass as has every studied magic. His staff with the shrunken heads attached is one of the coolest weapons I’ve seen in a long, long time. This book may be worth a look at, at least for the art. If you dig the whole arcane world, then this may be just the thing for you. For me, it elicited those creepy feelings from reading Doctor Strange when I was a kid. I think I will steer away from this one.

raised on Saturday morning cartoons By Pauline Paré

Just as I predicted, the 2009 Fall Season has a lot to offer. The biggest surprise for me has been how much I am enjoying Glee. I prefer action series, especially Science Fiction so having a musical comedy as one of my favourite new shows is unexpected. The characters are all stereotypes but they are constantly thrown into unusual predicaments. There is a wealth of talent here, with the singing and dancing especially. Nearly every one of the students is an amazing performer. My favourite plotlines involve the teachers and their crazy love triangles. Matthew Morrison, who plays the teacher, Will Schuester, is amazing to watch and hr regularly steals the show. Emma Mays as the wide eyed, neurotic school counsellor makes a wonderfully hilarious leading lady. While Glee is not the first weekly musical, it is certainly the one to watch.

There have not been very many weekly musicals. In the 1980’s there were “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” and “Cop Rock”; neither lasted for longer than a season. Although I never saw “Seven Brides”, Wikipedia tells me it starred River Phoenix and Richard Dean Anderson (aka MacGyver) which is certainly intriguing. A much more successful series from this time period was “Fame”, which ran for 6 seasons and earned a whole bunch of awards. A few series tried musical episodes but the musical series has been struggling with a return to primetime( such as the awful and ridiculously short lived “Viva Laughlin”) until “Glee” broke onto the scene. Perhaps the newfound success of the series could spawn more of the same; as long as they are done correctly. Attention “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” fans: Joss Whedon is a big fan of Glee and he signed up to direct an upcoming episode of the series, After his success with the Buffy episode, “Once More With Feeling”, I am certain that this will be the episode to watch.